


Dichotomy

by foundCarcosa



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-02
Updated: 2011-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:39:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Berwald and Mikkel are always at odds -- except when they aren't. [Written 28 April 2011]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dichotomy

“You’re cold as fuckin’ ice,” he’d exclaimed, but it was in the middle of a fight and Berwald had already pulled back his fist, and he wasn’t going to cease the forward thrust to mull on what Mikkel might have meant by that.

And Mikkel didn’t mean it in a figurative sense, although the Swede did seem to have a smile like a dagger and a heart of permafrost. The Dane had grabbed Berwald by the throat, under his coat, and had been shocked at the cold flesh he found. Had he always been like that? The Dane couldn’t count on his memory.

And after blood dappled the snow like paint flicked onto a canvas, Berwald had made as though he would punch him in the groin but _grabbed_ at the last minute, grabbed viciously but didn’t twist, just held on with that _stare_ of his and Mikkel had simply grinned.

“All y’ had to do was ask,” instead of pummelling the hell out of each other, but that was how it went. Berwald had loved Tino but couldn’t keep him; Mikkel had loved Bjorn but couldn’t be kept. Where fire and ice met, the melding was irreversible.

But something was different tonight. Something had been different the last few times; Berwald restless and short with Mikkel, Mikkel trying to use his indomitable charm to soldier through the encounter… but _knowing_ the Swede wasn’t completely satisfied was a thorn in his side. Clarity dawned when Berwald’s hands locked around his neck in the middle of their blood-letting, and those icy eyes flared.

“Y’re warm again,” he huffed, before the thumbs pressed into his windpipe and prohibited further commentary.

The Swede’s chest heaved as heat lit into his muscles and bloodstream, flushing his skin and loosening that ever-present coil of restraint in his gut. He squeezed, veins in hands jutting, blood trickling out of the capillaries in Mikkel’s face and eyelids peeling back. _Stop now_.

He stopped, but he didn’t let go, thrusting his thigh between the Dane’s as they fell back against the wall, eyes unfocused behind slightly askew glasses and lips parted in that inviting manner. Mikkel _pushed_ back, pelvis colliding against pelvis, strength found as oxygen flooded lungs and cells. He was smiling, wickedly, and Berwald didn’t like that. He gripped the Dane’s chin with his fingertips, digging in, slipping into the hollows of his cheeks and squeezing, his lower body trapping Mikkel between him and the wall.

Teeth met the Dane’s bottom lip before lips followed, tugging hard, dragging Mikkel into the kiss. Heat made his head swim, his body sway, sway into Mikkel’s like a rolling wave; his hands released the other male although his body still kept him trapped, and he shoved his own hands up into his shirt, pushing the fabric up and away from his abdomen. Now the Dane was helping, their lips detaching with a wet sound so the shirt could be pulled off, and without being prodded, he was slipping down Berwald’s body to flick a tongue over perked nipples.

Oh, yes, _there_ we go, the Swede’s fingers gripped his shoulders for leverage and Mikkel could feel the pitifully restrained hardness pushing into his abdomen. He raked teeth over the secret sensitive area, rewarded with a hand fisting into his hair and a sharply inhaled breath. No one else did that. No one else but Mikkel. And Mikkel made sure he didn’t forget it.

But this was the Dane taking control again, wickedly turning the tables, and Berwald pushed him away and down with a scowl. He could see the smirk in Mikkel’s eyes, the “didn’t think y’ had it in you”, but he knew. He knew.

He also knew he’d dreamt of this scene, of the towering Swede and the head of his cock slipping out to jut into Mikkel’s face, of the barely-restrained groan as his tongue swept over those first couple of inches. His hands went to his own cock, still clothed and hardening further, eyes rolling up to watch Berwald’s flushed and intent face while he sucked. He knew.

And at the throaty command Berwald gave, Mikkel reached in and began stroking himself, eyes rolling back — and then coming back to the moment when the Swede’s hand gripped his hair and pushed him off.  
The hand held his head still whilst his hips jerked, and the Dane jerked in tandem when Berwald’s spit-damp cock slapped his cheek. A pointed glare followed.  
 _Don’t lose rhythm._

One learns quickly with the imprint of his lover’s most precious organ on his flesh. His head bobbed to the time of his stroking hand, and Berwald’s breathing matched his own, and the Dane’s hips pumped in tandem with the Swede’s, and his throat convulsed around the tip of the cock filling it just as milky white jets splattered on the ground between his knees.

And Berwald left him there, the limp Dane massaging his bruised throat — bruised inside and out — and staring down at the evidence of his orgasm as if it were an asymmetrical Rorschach test.

He was just picking himself off the floor, smoothing his shirt, cracking his knuckles, reassembling his wits, when Berwald returned.

Their foreheads touched when the Swede handed him the glass of blessedly frigid water. He didn’t flinch when the Dane splayed his hand over Berwald’s bare chest, on the swell of his left pectoral.  
Nor did he say anything. And for once, Mikkel didn’t feel the need to, either.


End file.
